


And Someday He Might Be A Good One, or Four Times Sherlock Accidentally Broke Lestrade’s Heart (and One He Didn't)

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Lestrade feels, M/M, Reichenbach, Sherstrade if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the most observant man in the world, Sherlock has an amazing ability to absolutely crush Lestrade without even noticing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Someday He Might Be A Good One, or Four Times Sherlock Accidentally Broke Lestrade’s Heart (and One He Didn't)

Lestrade had had one hell of a day. Well, technically, two days. Day and a half. He’d been on his feet since the previous morning, when they got the call about the missing children. Working with Sherlock was tiresome at best, but this time he seemed to be doing his damnedest to inspire a homicidal rage in everyone he met. Something about that Moriarty character really got under his skin, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he’d once strapped an alarming amount of explosives to his favorite pet doctor, though that probably didn’t help. Except now the word was that he wasn’t Moriarty at all, and my God if there was something that angered Lestrade more than Sherlock’s antics, it was people who didn’t believe they were genuine. He didn’t think this “Richard Brook” story would hold up for a minute, and it frustrated him to no end that he had to at least investigate the possibility that it was all true.

He’d been out all night looking for the bastard, because he didn’t trust anyone else to haul him in. Even he’d be hard pressed to bring in Sherlock without a little police brutality at this point, mostly for dragging John into this mess. He wasn’t exactly surprised that his search had proved fruitless, but he had to try. A part of him hoped that Sherlock would allow himself to be found, that he understood just how much damage he’d caused with his latest stunt. If he could’ve just come peacefully, they could’ve had it over and done with…

But of course he couldn’t, because he was Sherlock Fucking Holmes, and he never did things the easy way. And so Lestrade had eventually given up on finding him, because if Sherlock didn’t want to be found, it would take a wiser man than him to locate him. He made his way back to his office and set to work preemptively cleaning out his desk. He hoped he had too good a record, too long a history in the force for them to fire him outright, but he knew for certain that his days as a detective inspector were over. Maybe they’d be kind enough to keep him around as a janitor.

He jumped when the phone rang. He’d already started conditioning himself to stop thinking of it as his phone, so he was slow to answer.

He sat down in the chair that probably wasn’t his anymore and tried to process the information. He heard himself asking the voice on the other end of the line if they were sure, was it really him, it wasn’t a trick, and he was hesitantly informed that a Dr. Watson witnessed the whole event. _Oh God, John._

And that was just the way of things, wasn’t it? His life was officially in shambles, and it wasn’t even his tragedy.

—————

Just like that, Sherlock was gone.

Lestrade had yet to figure out how he kept doing it. The flat was literally overflowing with people, police officers spilling out of every opening, everyone there for the express purpose of seeing Sherlock get knocked down a peg or two. Well, except for the new “friend.” And somehow, he’d slipped past all of them, given some bullshit excuse and left through the goddamn front door. No one had stopped him, no one had questioned him, and no one had any idea where he’d gone.

He tried to salvage what he could for the investigation. They had the pink case that Sherlock had been so keen to find. Of course, since they’d found it in Sherlock’s new flat and not in its natural habitat, he was uncertain how useful it would be to them as evidence. They had cracked the secret of the missing mobile phone, but that appeared to be another dead end so long as the phone _remained_ missing.

“Why did he have to leave?” Lestrade muttered, more to himself to anyone.

“You know him better than I do,” said Fresh Meat, who apparently included an inability to pick up on rhetorical questions among whatever traits made him consider Sherlock Holmes a good candidate for a flatmate. John Watson, Lestrade reminded himself.

Lestrade thought of everything he knew about Sherlock. He knew he was vain, despite a professed lack of ignorance in public opinion. He was clever, obviously. He was cocksure and arrogant and secretly possessed of a terror that the world might someday run out of problems worth his time. He was childish. He was selfish. He was petty. He was all of those things and he chose, above everything else, to use his brilliance to help others.

Lestrade thought of their shared experiences. The cases, sure, but also Sherlock’s own arrests. Nights spent in a cell for his own damn good. Fighting to have him allowed at crime scenes. Every secret kept, every bloodied knuckle and blacked eye, every time they had stood back to back and faced down death. He thought of all of these things in an instant, and the way that Sherlock and John had looked at each other, like soulmates who were just beginning to hear the universe sing around them.

“I’ve known him for five years,” he said, hating the way the truth tasted, “And no, I don’t.”

—————

Lestrade wished he could have five minutes alone and unsupervised with whatever sorry bastard decided to leak to the press that their latest case was a serial killer. The impending threat of another press conference was bad enough, the swarm of bloodthirsty reporters eager to make headlines out of anything he said, but there was another consequence he was quickly learning to dread: _Holmes._

He’d tried to keep the case secret from the moment it started exhibiting peculiar symptoms. The first murder had ritualistic elements to it that clearly distinguished it from run-of-the-mill crimes of passion, but when there was a second victim, and then a third, all sharing a definite physical profile, he knew it was for the worst. And with the magical incantation _serial killer_ quickly bleeding into every major news outlet, it was only a matter of time before they got a visit from everyone’s favorite freak.

Except he never came. No texts, no phone calls. Lestrade had never known Sherlock to resist the siren song of a serial killer, especially when his presence was explicitly unwanted, and it had been so long since the last case that he’d figured the consulting detective would be mad for a distraction. As their evidence dried up and leads disappeared, he found himself actually wishing for Sherlock’s help. He texted him an invitation to all their most interesting ongoing investigations. When that didn’t get an answer, he called him, suffering withering looks from the rest of the department. As if they weren’t just as desperate. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail. Nothing.

“Right,” said Lestrade, keenly aware of every eye watching him. “I’m going out for a proper coffee, not this office swill. I expect to see _some_ kind of progress by the time I get back.”

The Montague Street flat was a mess. Lestrade would wonder how Sherlock could stand to sleep in a dump like that, but he knew that he probably didn’t. Sherlock hardly slept at all, full stop, and the few occasions that Lestrade had seen him slip into blessed silent unconsciousness had either been in hospital beds, holding cells, or once, the back seat of his cruiser. The flat was just a place for him to conduct questionable experiments and hide from a brother that Lestrade had only seen twice and already distrusted. He wondered what their poor mother must be like.

Sherlock’s landlord just grunted and jabbed his thumb in the direction of some extremely suspicious stairs when Lestrade asked after him. He took it as an invitation and carefully climbed the staircase into Holmes Territory.

Sherlock’s room was even worse than the rest of the place. Papers scattered everywhere. Petri dishes whose contents Lestrade didn’t want to contemplate. A stack of clothing meticulously folded in the corner, as if to show the rest of the room how it ought to be done. And worst of all, there was Sherlock in the middle of it all, limbs flung about in a way that couldn’t possibly be intentional. His pupils were wide, making his normally bright eyes look dark. He was pale, so pale, even for him, whole body drenched in sweat and other fluids, and Lestrade had to wave a hand over his mouth to be completely sure he was still breathing. Lestrade swore. He kicked the empty syringe out of Sherlock’s limp hand and swore some more.

Because he was a police officer, he dialed emergency services and explained the situation in clear, concise terms. He checked Sherlock’s pulse, sat him up, made sure he wasn’t in any danger of choking on his own deliriously clever vomit. And then, because Lestrade also considered himself a friend, he wrapped Sherlock in a marginally clean blanket and waited with him while he drifted in and out of consciousness. Sometimes Sherlock’s fingers curled around his, a child afraid to cross a busy intersection. Sometimes he tightened the blanket around himself and spoke only to invisible things. When the ambulance arrived, Lestrade rode with him to the hospital. He filled out paperwork while doctors did unspeakable things behind closed doors in the name of saving a lie. He stayed in the waiting room, slept on uncomfortable chairs (if it could be called sleep) and ate hospital food (if it could be called food). He met Sherlock’s brother for the third time, and this time he got a name, a phone number that almost certainly went directly to his pretty little assistant, and an uncomfortable ride back to his car, still parked on Montague.

Mycroft, the unsettling older brother, solved the case for them while Sherlock sweated out his addiction in a posh rehabilitation clinic. Lestrade got the distinct impression that this was a sort of punishment for Sherlock, who probably could have worked on the case by phone, or investigated scenes of interest on a day pass from the facility. Instead, Big Brother stepped in to save the day, calmly pointing out missed evidence with the tip of his umbrella. He spoke quickly and efficiently, never wasting words on unnecessary conversation; he was polite, effective, and everyone was glad to see him go when it was over. Donovan asked Lestrade when they would get their freak back.

When Sherlock returned, he met Lestrade’s gaze easily, without shame, as if nothing had passed between them.

—————

Lestrade didn’t know what he’d done to deserve his shadow, but he wanted to take it back. And Holmes was definitely his own personal raincloud— he’d asked around the other departments, and all of them had had only brief interactions with the so-called consulting detective. Apparently these interactions had been memorable, however, because everyone he spoke with gave him the same look of pity, like they were sorry, but not quite sorry enough to take the Holmes boy off his hands.

It wasn’t that he didn’t help. No, the boy was brilliant, a true genius. He solved cases in moments that would have taken the most skilled teams weeks at best. And Lestrade was grateful for that much, he supposed, for getting dangerous criminals of the streets and decisively behind bars, even if it meant mountains of paperwork for him and his crew. But Holmes was absolutely intolerable. He was an operatic diva, demanding absolute cooperation from everyone in the room before gracing them with his deductions. He insulted people as easily as breathing. When some poor bastard had the gall to doubt him, he proved his superiority by deducing the most embarrassing secret he could find. He’d already driven their best man in forensics to seek a transfer to Manchester, and Lestrade doubted his replacement would fare much better.

Those who didn’t hate Holmes adored him, much to the dismay of the former category. There were a few bright young coppers who practically worshipped the man, which practice Lestrade tried to stamp out at every opportunity. The last thing Holmes needed was encouragement.

The worst thing was that Lestrade could see why they liked him so much, he really could. He’d spent enough years working under an increasingly obscure chain of command that he sympathized with a desire to disregard authority, even his authority. There was no denying that the Holmes boy was more intelligent than anyone he’d ever met, or was likely to meet. And he certainly cut a dashing figure in that ridiculous coat of his, pale eyes peering out over a face like fine china. There was an ethereal beauty to his strange proportions, his body skeletal thin under designer shirts Lestrade knew he couldn’t possibly afford. Maybe he was a demon sent to try his patience.

Lestrade realized he was waxing poetic, and tried to focus once again on the Holmes-induced stack of paperwork on his desk. He shouldn’t have been looking, anyway. Not just because Holmes was a bloody nuisance, but because he was practically a child, and because Lestrade was a happily married man. Well, a married man. He had no right to be discreetly watching him on the far side of the room, moving in calculated strides that made his coat flare out dramatically behind him, delivering a devilish smirk with expert timing to some easily impressed police minion, cutting down Anderson with another witty remark that earned muffled laughter from those in hearing range. It was downright wrong for him to admire the way his clothes clung to his slender form, outlining every curve, to wonder what kind of strength hid in those youthful bones and how it might best be abused.

Poetry again, and not even good poetry. He shut the blinds on his office window and committed himself to work. He was so committed, in fact, that he didn’t notice the door swinging quietly open and shut until Holmes was in his office, leaning against his desk in a casual invasion of personal space.

 _“What,”_ said Lestrade with extreme annoyance. “You can’t possibly think we have a new case for you already, you’ve only just solved the last one.”

Holmes ignored him. “You know, I’m a year older than he is,” he said nonchalantly. Like Lestrade should know exactly what he was talking about. Except he didn’t, because that was one of Holmes’s infuriating habits— assuming that everyone was on the same page as him, that his incredible leaps of deduction were _obvious_ and they should all feel stupid or not keeping up.

“Sorry, who?” He had already learned that ignoring Holmes didn’t make him go away, so it was best to just play along and get it over with.

“The man your wife is sleeping with,” he explained smugly, and Lestrade had never wanted so badly to punch him. “I’m a year older than him. If you were feeling guilty.”

“Get out of my office.”

Holmes looked confused. “I thought you would want to know.”

“Get out,” Lestrade repeated firmly. He got out. Lestrade finished his paperwork in peace, and wondered what the fuck he was going to do with the knowledge that his wife was having an affair.

—————

Lestrade still didn’t know what kind of “minor government official” Mycroft Holmes wasn’t, and he didn’t think he ever wanted to know, but for once, he was grateful for the man’s extensive influence. It was the only explanation for his continued employment at New Scotland Yard. The evidence against him had been pretty damning, especially when Molly shakily came forward about Sherlock’s mortuary raids (she mouthed “sorry” at him across the room, and he forgave her, he honestly did, because it was over for him anyway). Oh, he’d been busted down several ranks, and he’d probably never see the title “detective inspector” in front of his name for the rest of his life, but he was still doing the job he loved, keeping the men and women of London safe. They were even gracious enough to attach him to Sherlock’s case, albeit mostly as as a witness.

And what a case it was! It was like playing Jenga against the world champion. With every little piece of evidence against “Richard Brook” they teased out, his story looked even more impossibly flimsy, but it continued to hold through the investigation. Until at last, an anonymous tip landed them the elusive Sebastian Moran, and it all came tumbling down. Moriarty was real. Richard Brook was fake. Not that any of that was much consolation to a dead man, but it warmed Lestrade’s heart to see John relax when he heard the news, to see the relief writ plain on his face.

Mycroft outlined the situation that had led Sherlock to jump. Lestrade wasn’t really surprised to learn about the snipers. Sherlock Holmes was many things, a good portion of which were irritating, impossible, or contradictory, but he was not suicidal, and he was not a fraud. In a way, Lestrade was proud of him, to know that in the end he had sacrificed his life or those he loved. He could talk all he liked about feelings as a disadvantage, but he had a heart after all.

Mycroft listed off the names of those Moriarty had threatened to kill. John, of course. Lestrade suspected that he would’ve done it even if John was the only one. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady who had all but adopted him. She’d done a good job taking care of John after the fact. She was a good woman, and Lestrade had always been grateful to have her around whenever he had to visit Sherlock on business. He waited for the third name He expected it would be Mycroft himself, or perhaps some dear family member Lestrade had never had the misfortune to meet.

Mycroft told him.

Lestrade was sure he must’ve heard wrong.

Mycroft told him again.

Sherlock had died to protect three people, and Gregory Lestrade was one of them. The idiot couldn’t even remember his first name, but he counted Lestrade among his three dearest friends. The only people in the world that he loved, in his strange Holmes way.

Lestrade was the sort of man who was usually embarrassed to be seen crying, but, he reasoned, tears were a perfectly normal reaction to dealing with Sherlock.


End file.
